Saturday, December 22nd, 1990.
Hogwarts greeted me with silence. Not the usual silence of late night when everyone is asleep, or early morning — no, this was something else entirely. Just the stillness of an almost empty castle, from which the majority of students had departed for the winter holidays.
Almost all the students had left just that morning. The train had carried them off to their parents, to warm fireplaces, to Christmas turkeys and presents. Those who remained either wanted to spend the winter holidays among friends, or simply didn't want to go home, or had nowhere to return to. I was at Hogwarts because I had exams.
It was strange. I had spent two and a half years at Hogwarts, and now, having returned to the castle for a couple of hours, I felt a strong urge to go to the Slytherin common room. My feet kept trying to carry me elsewhere — to the Room of Requirement, to the Dueling Club, to those places where I had spent so much time over the past years… it felt good.
I had grown accustomed. Damn it, I had grown accustomed to this routine. To the school and this environment.
But I knew this was just nostalgia. And nostalgia is a dangerous feeling. Especially for someone who is making plans for decades ahead. I shook my head and focused. It was time to get down to business. The exams.
I had been stuck in empty classrooms for over three hours now, proving to the professors that I was worthy of the fourth year. I had had to reread all the third-year textbooks over the past couple of days — or rather, the most important parts, because I always tried to stay ahead of the curriculum. Notes, summaries, my own research — everything was used to achieve high marks.
Subject after subject, I was passing with "Outstanding." Problems arose during the Transfiguration exam.
McGonagall sat behind her desk with an expression as if I had come to rob her of her last shred of dignity. The theoretical part went without a hitch — I answered clearly, quickly, with examples and quotes from textbooks that she clearly hadn't even expected to hear.
The practical part was even easier, but then she started asking her own questions and giving practical tasks with broad descriptions, which tested more whether I had correctly understood McGonagall's requests.
"Well, Mr. Malfoy," she said finally. "But I'm not sure this merits an 'Outstanding.'"
I looked her straight in the eye.
"Professor, if anyone before me has taken third-year exams better than I just did, you can feel free to give me a 'Troll.' I'll accept that verdict."
She pursed her lips. But McGonagall knew how to control herself.
"Very well, there's no need to make exceptions. 'Outstanding,' Mr. Malfoy," she pronounced. "But remember: I am giving you this grade despite my wishes, not because of them."
"Thank you, Professor," I replied with a slight bow. "I will remember that."
Potions turned out to be no easier, but the difficulty there was more in the practical work than in the professor's attitude towards me.
I wrote the test perfectly — Snape, who was checking my work right in front of me, found no mistakes. But the brewing was more troublesome. I had to brew three different third-year potions, without a recipe.
The first potion turned out lumpy. The second, too thin. The third was passable. I exhaled and looked at the professor.
Snape studied the contents of the cauldron with an expression as if the question was whether to let me live or execute me on the spot.
"Mr. Malfoy," he said finally, "your potions are not as potent as they could have been. Considering you were preparing them in ideal conditions, without haste or pressure… the result could have been better."
I remained silent. Arguing was useless.
"However," Snape continued, and a particular irony slipped into his voice that I had learned to recognize, "considering the entire context of the situation, your early submission of the material, and… let's say, the specific circumstances under which you are leaving the school… I am, reluctantly, giving you an 'Outstanding.'"
He looked at me over the cauldron.
"But this grade is, to put it mildly, a stretch. Remember that."
"I will remember, Professor," I replied. "And thank you. By the way, Father would like to speak with you when he comes to pick me up. I think he would like to invite you to dinner this evening."
Snape nodded and turned his back to me, signaling that the conversation was over. After that came Ancient Runes… I was also taking exams for my electives. And so I went through the trials one by one, sometimes having to exert myself and think hard, other times passing easily without even straining.
The last exam was the most personally important subject for me — Charms. Professor Flitwick, despite the absence of most students, was holding a Dueling Club meeting today, so his exam was scheduled last.
In fact, the entire exam process was arranged so that I wouldn't run into any other students, and I was accompanied everywhere.
So, the tiny professor was perched on his usual stack of books at his desk, his eyes sparkling with that gleam that appeared only when talking about his favorite subject.
The questions were clearly not only from the textbook, but Flitwick already knew I knew the material, so why not test me thoroughly?
The questions came one after another — Flitwick raced through the third-year curriculum at such a speed that any other student would have been lost long ago. But I was ready. The questions covered spells, various principles of spell-casting, analysis of modifications, principles of spell activation, and more.
"Brilliant!" the professor exclaimed, when I finished answering another tricky question about the nuances of using Accio in real-world conditions. "Absolutely brilliant! You passed the oral part easily, but I expected nothing less from you. Let's move on to the practical."
For the practical, we moved to the center of the office, where there was enough room for spell-casting. Flitwick waved his wand, and a wooden dummy popped out of a niche.
"All third-year spells, Mr. Malfoy. In order, and please — non-verbally, if possible. I want to see your level of non-verbal magic."
I nodded and began.
We didn't study too many spells in a year, as usual, but we didn't need many — more than a dozen spells a year would cause confusion later. Although, you'd think…
First, I demonstrated Accio — the Summoning Charm — and then Depulso, as the spell opposite to Accio… well, not exactly, but that's what they say. Then I showed Flagrate — the Marking Charm. Mobili — Moving Charm. Also some Tickling Charms, a spell that induces sleep — Dormeo. And conversely, Animosus, which helped to wake up, or awaken.
I even demonstrated the Obliteration Charm for erasing writing, not to mention Aparecium — the Revealing Charm. And then… small things — Fervere — the Boiling Charm. Immobulus — Freezing Charm, but working differently from those learned in other years. And finally, Diffindo and Riddikulus.
Diffindo cut a piece of parchment perfectly straight.
"Magnificent," Flitwick breathed. "Simply magnificent. Mr. Malfoy, I have seen many talented students, but for a third-year to be so proficient in non-verbal magic…"
I stopped, feeling a slight sweat on my forehead. Two dozen spells non-verbally, one after another — especially after several hours of exams… it required concentration.
"Thank you, Professor," I replied with a slight bow.
"One last point remains," Flitwick lowered his voice and winked conspiratorially. "Bombarda. I want to see how you handle explosive spells, which are intended for study in higher years, but you…"
I frowned.
"Professor, that's not safe. In the office…"
"It's all right, Mr. Malfoy," Flitwick interrupted my interruption with a slight smile. "I am the Charms professor, am I not? Show me what you can do."
I nodded, raised my wand, and clearly enunciated:
"Bombarda!"
At the very moment the spell was about to blast the dummy to pieces, Flitwick made a circular motion with his wand. The air around the explosive spell seemed to thicken, wrapping it in a transparent cocoon — and the explosion clapped inside that sphere, not even touching the target. The dummy remained standing, unharmed.
I froze, watching the spell simply disappear without a trace.
"Impressive," I breathed sincerely.
"Oh, it's nothing," Flitwick waved his hand, but pride was evident in his voice. "A simple dissipation technique, nothing complicated. But it requires a reaction speed and technique honed over years. You, by the way, have excellent reflexes. I noticed it during your duel."
He paused, and his face became more serious.
"Mr. Malfoy, you obviously passed the exam brilliantly. 'Outstanding' is not even up for discussion. But now, I would like to speak with you not as an examiner, but as… let's say, a senior colleague. May I?"
I nodded, intrigued.
"I have been watching you since your admission," Flitwick began, folding his arms over his chest. "In duels, in training, even just in class. You have an incredible talent. But talent is merely a necessary condition, not a sufficient one. The path of a professional duelist is extremely thorny, and dangerous besides. And I have noticed that you are drawn to both paths, much as I was in my time."
He sighed, and a shadow of distant memories flickered in his eyes.
"I have seen many wizards die, even in official tournaments. All kinds of people — young and old, experienced and not. Among professionals, there are far fewer restrictions, and the level of skill is exponentially higher. One wrong move, one miscalculation — and it's over."
Flitwick looked me straight in the eye.
"I'm not trying to dissuade you, mind you. I just want you to understand: this is not a game. It is deadly serious. If you are ready for this path — continue. But if you have even a shadow of doubt, think twice."
I remained silent, letting him speak.
"If you do decide to move in this direction," Flitwick continued, "be sure to participate in junior tournaments before you finish school. There you will meet future stars of the dueling world, make connections, and understand whether it is for you or not. The Junior League is an excellent place to gain experience."
"I will remember, Professor," I replied.
"And one more thing," Flitwick raised a finger. "Continue your physical training. Many wizards neglect this, thinking that magic solves everything. But in a duel, especially a prolonged one, physical fitness is very important. It won't replace skill, but it can give you that very edge that decides the outcome of a match."
I nodded.
"Professor, these are valuable pieces of advice. But I would like to ask a question beyond the knowledge you've shared with me," I said. "Regarding the creation of original spells. What would you recommend for reading?"
Flitwick brightened.
"Oh! Excellent question!" He bounced on his stack of books and began ticking off points on his fingers. "Firstly, The Fundamentals of Spell Construction by Livan Kroger. A good foundation to start with. Secondly, Theory of Magical Flows and Their Modification by Mirabelle Venturai — very difficult for beginners, but an extremely useful book. And thirdly…"
He squinted slyly.
"A Practical Guide to Spell Creation for the Advanced by Wolfgang Steiner. An old colleague of mine from Austria. He's a bit eccentric, and his books are as well, but as a specialist — he's a genius. The book is not for beginners, but I think you'll manage in a year or two."
"Thank you, Professor," I said sincerely. "I will definitely find them."
"Just be careful," Flitwick warned. "Creating spells is like playing with fire. Literally, sometimes. Don't rush, test everything on safe targets at every stage, and consult with specialists."
He paused, then added in a completely different tone — quiet, almost intimate:
"Remember, duels are a wonderful thing," Flitwick looked me straight in the eye. "But they, like some spells, do not forgive carelessness. I've noticed that in duels, you constantly hold back. It's visible. You have your own style, it's already discernible, but each time it's as if you put a limiter on yourself."
He paused.
"I don't know what that's connected with, but the fact that you can control yourself tells me that I wasn't wrong about you. And that incident was not your fault."
I remained silent, not knowing what to say.
"Alright," Flitwick suddenly clapped his hands, and the serious expression vanished from his face, replaced by his usual smile. "I've talked your ear off. Go on, Mr. Malfoy. The exam is passed, the grade is given, the advice is dispensed. The rest is in your hands."
In the end, he simply extended his palm to me. I shook his hand — small, but firm, with a surprisingly strong grip.
"Thank you, Professor," I said. "For everything."
"Good luck to you, Mr. Malfoy," Flitwick replied. "Wherever you end up and whatever you do — good luck."
***
I sat on a cold stone bench opposite the door behind which my fate was being decided.
The corridor was empty and quiet — only the occasional portraits on the walls. Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked steadily, counting the minutes of this endless waiting.
Fifteen minutes. Only fifteen minutes, but it felt like an eternity.
I ran Flitwick's words through my head. Not the exam questions — I had already forgotten those — but what he said afterwards. He had given me good advice and food for thought.
I smirked to myself. Professor Flitwick had no idea how valuable the advice he had given me was. He thought he was just giving advice to a promising student who might connect his life with professional dueling. But in reality, he had also pointed me towards the people I needed.
The European Junior Dueling Championships aren't just competitions. They are a gathering place for the most talented young wizards from all over Europe. Those who will later become champions, authors of new spells, teachers, researchers. Those who are a priori above other wizards, and often stronger as well.
It is there that I will find the core for my PMC. People with great potential, who can later be developed, guided, and utilized. And onto that core, the average ones will be drawn — those whom the skilled ones will train, creating a living, breathing structure.
For this purpose, even without remembering it, I had already been nudging many towards the idea of coming to work for me after school. Mainly Merula, but in general, there were many people on my radar whom I wanted to bring into the biggest idea of my life.
The door creaked, pulling me from my thoughts.
"Mr. Malfoy," Professor Snape said dryly, peeking into the corridor. "You are wanted."
I stood up, straightened my robes, and stepped inside.
Everyone who had administered my exams was gathered in the office. Dumbledore at the head of the table, as always, greeted me with a slight, deliberately kind smile on his face.
"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore began, his voice as soft and enveloping as ever. "We have reviewed your exam results, discussed your progress with your professors, and…"
He paused, and I noticed the cunning glint in his eyes behind his half-moon spectacles.
"…and we have reached a unanimous decision."
I held my breath. Although, to be honest, the outcome was predetermined. But a ritual is a ritual.
"Your third year at Hogwarts is considered completed," Dumbledore announced solemnly. "Congratulations, Mr. Malfoy. You are officially promoted to the fourth year."
Flitwick clapped his hands. McGonagall nodded restrainedly. Snape didn't even stir, but I saw something vaguely resembling approval flicker at the corners of his lips.
"Thank you, Headmaster Dumbledore," I replied with a slight bow. "Thank you all, professors."
"The formalities will be settled in the coming days," Dumbledore continued. "The documents will be sent to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang, where you will continue your studies for a whole year. An exchange program, as we agreed."
I bowed again, hiding a smirk.
An exchange program. Of course. Let them think so.
"Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore said. "Enjoy your holidays. I think you've earned them."
After these words, nothing remained for me but to go home and, first thing, buy presents for everyone… for Yule, and also prepare for the reception at the Ministry.